Cover Copy
An aspiring dressmaker, orphaned Starling Smith is accustomed to fighting for her own survival. But when she’s offered a year’s wages to temporarily pose as a wealthy man’s bride, she suspects ulterior motives. She can’t lose the chance to open her own shop, but she won’t be any man’s lover, not even handsome, infuriating Alisdair Seymour’s…
To prevent his visiting sister from parading potential brides in front of him, Alisdair has decided to present a fake wife. He lost his heart once, and had it broken—he doesn’t intend to do it again. But stubborn, spirited Starling is more alluring than he bargained for, and Alisdair will risk everything he has to prove his love is true…
Set against the sweeping backdrop of 1866 South Australia, Starling is a novel of cherished dreams and powerful desires, and the young woman bold enough to claim them both…
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Books by Virginia Taylor
Starling
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Starling
Virginia Taylor
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2014 by Virginia Taylor
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First Electronic Edition: April 2015
eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-717-6
eISBN-10: 1-61650-717-9
First Print Edition: April 2015
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-718-3
ISBN-10: 1-1-61650-718-7
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
RJT, all my love forever.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my author friend, C. S. Harris, for leading the way.
Chapter 1
Adelaide, South Australia, 1866
“Straighten your collar, girl,” said the sharp-faced clerk guarding the office door. His olive jacket faded into the green-papered walls of the anteroom. “Mr. Seymour don’t like to see his employees looking scruffy.”
Starling Smith fingered the starched white cotton around her throat. She didn’t look scruffy in the Seymour’s Emporium uniform she had worn with pride for the past two weeks. She looked neat and anonymous in the plain gray. Any female lucky enough to be employed selling fabrics should be nothing less than tidy—and diligent, too.
Yesterday, when the owner, Mr. Alasdair Seymour, had toured the emporium he stopped to inspect the materials she had ranked using the rainbow color scale, a new idea of her own. He had taken her name from the department manager, and now he possibly meant to commend her.
His office door opened. “Miss Smith?”
Remembering her place, she leapt to her feet.
He glanced at his clerk. “I’m not to be disturbed. Come into my office, Miss Smith.” Broad shouldered and tall, he looked younger than he had the day before, under thirty and handsome enough to deserve those sighs from the shopgirls.
Starling’s knees wobbled as she hastened past him through the doorway.
“Take a seat,” he said, taking his own. He wore his dark hair fashionably collar-length.
She perched on a carved chair upholstered in dark green brocade. The hovering red of sunset shone through the tall windows dressed with swags of yellow-striped silk. Sparkling motes floated to his desk where he sat, picked up a pen, and tapped the end on his blotter. His forehead was smooth, his nose precisely chiseled, and his jaw firm.
“Do you enjoy your job?” He looked straight at her. His eyes, an assessing luminous gray, sent a shimmer of panic through her.
She quickly lowered her gaze, trying to regain her breath. “I do.” Her voice sounded embarrassingly husky. “I like working with fabrics.”
“You worked in a hotel before you came here.” He scrutinized a page lying on his desk. “They gave you no reference.”
She had thrown away the crumpled piece of paper that described her as “a good worker,” hoping she could gloss over the six weeks she had been employed at the Star Inn, mentioned in the South Australian police records as a site of gambling and prostitution. “I didn’t think a temporary job would matter when I was waiting on the Seymour’s list for more than a year.”
He glanced up, his gaze again causing a strange jumble inside her. “You’ve had a small amount of education? That is, you can read and write?”
“Yes, sir. Or I wouldn’t have applied here.”
“Unfortunately, you’ve been annoying my customers.” He set down his pen.
She drew a surprised breath. “I sell them what they want, sir.”
“You sell them what you think they should have.”
Shaking her head, she stared at her fingers knotted in her lap. “I sell them what they need. It wouldn’t be right to sell fabrics not strong enough for their purpose or too heavy or the wrong color.”
“And it seems you have decided on the colors they should have.”
“I advise them on what might...suit.”
“I don’t pay you to advise my customers to buy cheaper fabrics than those they choose or less material. I pay you to make money for me.”
“I do, sir.” She leaned forward. “Just the other day, a young lady came back to buy more fabric. She said I’d given her just the right material for her ball gown, and she wanted me to help her again.”
“Mr. Porter thinks the fabric department can cope without female staff.”
“Female staff?” she queried, shaken. “But he told me I’m a quick learner.”
He shrugged. “I’m sorry but I am not going to keep you at the emporium.”
“You’re going to get rid of me? Oh, no, you don’t mean that. I get twice as many sales as Mr. Porter.”
He